


Closer Than They Appear

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dress, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: A date night. A special kind of date night with a one of a kind outfit because the event's the talk of the town. A special kind of date night because it's so many more things than just a date night for Gil and Malcolm.For Holiday Fic Exchange and Dress to Impress.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14
Collections: Malcolm Bright but instead of Suits it’s Dresses, Prodigal Son Holidays Fic Exchange





	Closer Than They Appear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IllestRin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllestRin/gifts).



> Thank yous at the end so guessing can happen first.

Malcolm huddles with his cup of coffee in the kitchen, the mug warming his hands between sips as he scans the sunlight trickling through the windows. It’s the kind of small comfort he latches onto, draining every second of peace to sustain him. There’s a long day ahead of them, but it’s a different kind of long, so he can afford to take a few minutes to himself.

"Planning on getting dressed?" Gil asks, coming up beside him and resting his hand on the robe’s belt at Malcolm’s hip. He’s fully dressed for the precinct in contrast to Malcolm’s state. 

Part of Malcolm wishes he was heading in with him. He naturally leans toward him. “They clearly specified briefs only for getting ready." He had pulled on black boxer-briefs after his shower and covered up in his grey microfiber robe. It isn’t how he usually lounges around the loft, but this isn’t a typical day. The whole ensemble is cozy even if his legs are a little cold. He was toastier laying in bed where the sun landed on him, warming him to the day.

"I still can't believe you need the whole day to get ready."

"I can't either. It's a ball, not a — " Malcolm gets cut off with a kiss, and Gil’s hand slips inside the robe, rubbing his hip. Gil’s other hand swipes his hair back from his face and tugs, the prickle of pleasure that runs through Malcolm’s body making him seriously question abandoning the day and going back to bed. Malcolm paws at Gil’s sweater, latching onto him.

Gil nips Malcolm’s bottom lip and pulls back so they’re nose to nose. “My city boy's gonna be beautiful."

"I'm — " Malcolm tries to manage Gil’s expectations. It’s an evening, not some magical transformation to turn back the year.

"Already so beautiful." Gil kisses him again. 

The praise and closeness with his husband leave Malcolm growing hard against him. He rocks into him, chasing friction as the top of his robe drifts apart. “They’re going to be here any minute,” he warns, warring with himself over whether they can take things further. He’s usually not the one reminding them of their daily responsibilities, but their loft is soon to be filled with people he’s only met once. He doesn’t know what to expect but knows getting caught in the middle of sex isn’t on the docket.

“Half an hour,” Gil corrects him, warm eyes flooded with desire.

“Not enough time to shower again.” Only enough time for Malcolm to finish his coffee and breathe through an affirmation card reading.

“Spoilsport.” Gil presses his thigh between Malcolm’s, pushing against his half-hard cock.

Reluctantly, Malcolm angles his hips away from the touch. “You’ll have to wait to undress me when we get home.”

Gil gives him another long, sensual kiss and steps back. “Have fun today, okay?”

Malcolm nods. Gil adjusts his pants and pours his own cup of coffee, sharing his lusty gaze across the counter. His smile around his mug will hold Malcolm over for the rest of the day, the casual intimacy another lasting comfort.

“The real kind of fun,” Gil reminds him with a kiss to the top of his head on the way out the door. “See you later.”

With Gil off to the precinct, Malcolm only has a few minutes to himself. _Don’t let your dreams be your dreams - make them exist_ leaves him wondering _what?_ , so he leaves the affirmation card on the counter. He restlessly checks his beard and eyebrows in the mirror, smoothing the small hairs obsessively making sure nothing’s out of place. His hair’s a mess, falling into his face, but they told him not to touch it — they’ll bring all the products. All he can do is keep pushing it behind his ears and wait.

Their loft is soon filled with four people bustling to ready for the day’s event. Rae and Margo, he’s met before — the spirited designer and their assistant who will outfit him in his attire for the evening. Rae could give Ainsley a run for her money — they might have complete opposite styles, but they share the same drive to achieve their visions. Renan and Sandeep, he was introduced to in passing — a hair and makeup artist duo who commonly work with Rae’s team. They quickly setup in the living room, boxes and products taking over every available surface.

Malcolm swaps his robe for a skin tight navy slip Rae has him put on. “To reduce scratching,” they tell him. Its halter top strap loops around the back of his neck and the hem hits him mid-thigh. The material is reminiscent of his days in ballet. Moments later, it’s covered with a cape as Renan starts styling his hair in Gil’s chair.

The repetitive motion of bristles working through his scalp is somewhat relaxing. Malcolm closes his eyes and thinks about what kind of evening they may have in store. He and Gil have never gone to something this fancy, and they haven’t been out together for an elaborate dinner since he came home from inpatient treatment several months back. It’s not something they usually indulge in, but he missed the joy of dancing with Gil at Christmas, and their low-key dates around town since haven’t had quite the flair of their holiday tradition. When this May opportunity arose, the charity it benefitted had personal meaning to him, and he jumped when he was asked to participate.

“You still awake, Bright?” someone asks, and he opens his eyes. Sandeep. Some kind of sponge in his hands.

“Good luck trying to get me to sleep,” Malcolm jokes with a smile.

“Your hair’s all set — would you like to see?” Renan asks. “You’re like the quietest client.”

Malcolm smirks at the term he’s not used to be described as. A mirror appears in front of him. “That’s a big poof,” he comments his first reaction. All of his hair on top is windblown to the sky, held up with some kind of gel and spray, the shorter sides smoothed to the back. He can’t say he’s ever had that hairstyle.

“Extreme brush up.” Renan laughs. “But we can go by your name.”

“That’s gonna stay?” He bring his fingers up to touch the sides but second-guesses himself.

“That’s the plan. Sandeep will finish up with you, then we’ll come back for touchups later.”

“Thanks.”

Working with Sandeep is a series of instructions — turning his head, opening and closing his eyes, smushing his lips. It takes far longer and involves more products than he usually uses, but Sandeep’s efficient. “Light smoky eye and a wet lip for you, m’dear,” Sandeep says as he holds the mirror in front of him. Malcolm’s never worn so much makeup, but it highlights his face in a new way, accentuates the airy drift with shimmer up into his hair. “We’ll apply the gloss when we come back, so you’ll have to imagine that bit for now.” Sandeep winks at him.

“Thank you.”

“Your husband’s gonna gush when he sees you,” Sandeep encourages him.

Malcolm pauses a moment, not remembering mentioning Gil to Sandeep. His eyes travel to the photos of the two of them resting on the end table and bookshelves, the thin titanium band snug around his finger. Small reminders of his husband there for anyone to see. “We’ll see,” he offers in return.

“Bright, you’re all ours now,” Rae announces from behind him, their asymmetrical sweater flowing to the side like a sail in the mirror. “Sandeep, Renan — we’ll see you later. Thanks.”

The cape comes off and Malcolm stands in the middle of the living room in the slip, more statue than human. A navy belt with dozens of plastic protrusions gets wrapped around his waist. A similar ring goes over his head and rests flat on his collarbones. “We need to assemble the rest,” Rae comments.

Hundreds of 3D printed pieces sit in boxes around his living room. From his vantage point, hints of white peek out among the navy. He has a rough idea of the design concept from when Rae requested to meet him, but no one’s ever seen it assembled. It’s custom made for him, especially designed for the occasion. A statement piece.

Margo slides a box next to him, and they start picking up pieces. The first piece gets clipped to the ring around his neck, dangling like a necklace. Eight pointy protrusions in navy and white formed layer by layer out of metal and plastic composite filaments in their studio give them an iridescent glow in the daylight.

“Gonna be a pretty hot Spider-Man,” Margo comments with a grin.

“ _Margo_ ,” Rae snips, glaring at their assistant like Gil usually scolds him.

Malcolm chuckles. “It’s alright.”

“You are _not_ Spider-Man,” they correct. “You’re a patchwork of spun illusions. Fragments of fear.”

“Got it.” He remembers from their first discussion, yet he understands the designer’s attachment to the concept. Their shared passion for the subject was why he agreed to wear the piece to begin with.

“You’re a walking depiction of mental health. Language is important.” Rae looks at him as they snap in the next piece. The intensity of their stare blazes like many pairs of eyes lasering through him.

He smiles — doesn’t he know it. “I understand.”

“We’re gonna clip in the first row all the way around and work our way down. If you need water, you tell Margo. If you need to pee, you do that before we get to your hips, or you’re gonna be holding it awhile,” they rattle off all of the details of assembly with an efficiency that he appreciates, knowing that they won’t be wasting any time.

He may have paid less attention to the details of wearing this dress, though. He wasn’t aware there were so many requirements or limitations as to what he’d be able to do that evening. “How long is this going to take?”

“You’ll make it to the ball,” they deadpan back to him.

That doesn’t sound promising. He’s not complaining he’s just… antsy. It’s a long time not to be able to go out for a walk. Maybe he could call Gil and help with a case… but bystanders. Maybe a podcast or something? Meditation… “Could we put something relaxing on?” he asks, looking across the loft. “The stereo will default to it. I’d do it, but I don’t want to move on you.”

“I’ll get it,” Margo says as she walks to it.

“If you need a few minute break at any point, you tell us,” Rae says, giving him a serious look. “It’d be bad if we can’t accommodate the needs of the man wearing the piece.” They share a small smile.

Malcolm returns a similar smile. “Will do.” He understands the sentiment but chuckles inside at the same time at the functional aspects of the dress that seem to be missing.

Mixed songs from nature play through the loft as they work. Every once in a while Sunshine chirps, drawing his attention back, then he drifts again. Waves, thunder, the gentle and stronger falls of rain, meadows, the rainforest. Thoughts of laying out in the sun soaking in energy and being in the moment.

Clipping in all of the 3D printed pieces from his neck to his belt goes slowly, but once they finish, Malcolm takes the discussed pee break. It gives him a chance to look in the mirror at the progress. A pattern of different sized spiders laid out to accentuate his frame. Navy and white legs creating a spindly woven pattern. If he backs up from the mirror, they don’t even look like spiders anymore, only what seems like a long herringbone-esque pattern remaining. An optical illusion.

Though it may be invisible, the fear’s always there. Though there may not be a visible sign of his health conditions, they’re still there, always a part of him. The more he looks at the top, the more he connects with the point and gets lost in his head with his thoughts. He’s doing this to benefit a cause that resonates with him so strongly and is so much bigger than him at the same time. It’s a big night for a lot of people, the pressure of meeting their expectations tightening his shoulders.

When he refocuses, the clock on the counter tells him he’s been in the bathroom twenty minutes. _Shit_. He scurries back out to the living room. Neither of them seem to be particularly worried he was gone awhile.

“We’re doing the skirt next, then the train will connect to your belt when we get to the venue,” Rae explains. They’ve assumed their position in front of him again

“Train?” Malcolm asks. Perhaps his listening skills about every detail of the dress had been seriously lacking. Or maybe they hadn’t told him. He’d left all of the decisions up to the artist, the designer. Trusted them to create whatever they envisioned.

“Bright?” Rae looks at him expectantly like they’re waiting for a response from him.

“Huh?”

“The train. We can’t chance dragging it before the red carpet, so we’ll fit it to you here, then bring it on a mannequin to the venue.”

He figures missing this is on him. Sounds complicated, but they know what they’re doing, so he nods. That seems to be enough to get things moving again.

They work around his crotch and ass for the better part of two hours clipping in spider after spider. It’s awkward and he longs to chat with his husband. His phone is too far out of reach to text him to check in, so he zones out for most of it.

“Bright, walk for me,” Rae instructs, bringing him back to attention.

Malcolm ends up walking in more of a waddle than a stride, the 3D printed spiders not having as much give as the material underneath. He can’t remember ever feeling so constricted, practically zippered up in composite.

“Smaller steps,” Rae guides him.

Malcolm tries again, but it still doesn’t feel like his regular walk. The spiders have a tight hold to his mid-thigh, very little shifting possible above the knee.

“We might need to go up one more,” Rae tells Margo.

The back of the skirt comes unclipped row by row so the team can add more spiders to make the dress more wearable. When they finish, they have him walk again and are happy with the progress. It’s unlike any fit Malcolm’s worn before, clingy and begging him to move slowly, but he figures it’s what he signed up for. An inconvenience to adjust to.

“Alright, let’s get the train fitted,” Rae says with a sigh. It seems a gesture more born of tedium than frustration, the finished vision one more garment piece, yet hundreds of spiders away.

Rae clips the base lining of the train into the belt. It’s similar to a large skirt with the slit in the center and a foot or so of navy material that pools around him on the floor. “We’re going to clip in everything first, then see what we need to trim away,” they explain.

Malcolm quickly learns that many 3D printed spiders clipped into a train is much heavier than he expected. It pulls at his waist by the time they’re three-quarters of the way through.

“Stand up straight,” Rae instructs.

Malcolm straightens. “It’s heavy.”

“We’ve got to get the fit right, or it’s not going to work. Slouching is going to mess up the length.”

Malcolm makes an effort to straighten again. He’s used to the instructions from his mother’s tailor, but fitting isn’t exactly his favorite part of the process. The day has required more standing still than he’s managed in a while. He’s overdue for a walk, and he fights against fidgeting like a puppy.

It takes them another two hours to finish. He didn’t expect spending the whole day standing could be so tiring. His knees have a dull ache, and his feet are uncomfortable even though he’s been standing on the plush rug.

“Okay, slowly walk toward the kitchen,” Rae requests.

Malcolm does as instructed, knowing what he’s wearing is considered precious cargo. He nearly gets to the corner of the counter when the front door opens. Gil walks inside and stops, looking over him from head to toe in an appreciative gaze that melts to his insides. He strides to him, frames his face, and kisses him. “Babe, you look stunning.”

Malcolm’s cheeks heat in a blush. “Thank you.” It feels too good for him to mention Gil shouldn’t mess up the makeup.

“We have your tux ready, Gil,” Rae calls from the other room.

Gil doesn’t take his eyes from Malcolm. “I’ll shower and be out shortly,” he replies. “So beautiful.” His eyes glow as he caresses Malcolm’s chin. To Malcolm, it’s like they’re the only two in the room. “Need anything?” Gil asks.

Malcolm shakes his head.

“Be back soon.” Gil gives him a peck on the lips and heads for the bathroom.

“Come back, we need to unclip a row,” Rae tells Malcolm. “It’s a bit too long.”

They unclip, Malcolm walks again. They rearrange a few more, he walks again.

Gil comes out in an undershirt and sweatpants. “What can I put on?”

“Margo will help you try on for one last fitting, then it’s gotta come off for hair and makeup,” Rae says, pointing behind them.

“I won’t need — “

“You’ll want something for the carpet or the lights’ll drown you out,” Margo jumps in.

Gil looks skeptical, but he nods to Malcolm and starts putting on the clothes Margo hands him.

Malcolm chatters while Rae finishes hemming the train. “They’re all spiders, Gil. Hand assembled, every one of these. Can you believe it? They represent fear and pain and the web of mental health.”

“And they’re also beautiful,” Gil replies as Margo checks the fit on his tux.

“Exactly! You get it!”

“Like you.” Gil meets his eyes significantly more misty-eyed than he was before. “It’s perfect,” he says quietly, his voice wavering as he swallows his emotions.

“It’s been a really long year,” Malcolm explains, looking to Rae. “This is a special day for us.”

“We heard. We’re glad we could be a part of it,” Rae responds. “It’s a big day for us too. We’ll have you both ready soon.”

A chance to have their work displayed internationally in the media. A step up from their work being featured in New York. But also for them, a chance to highlight mental health in a more visible way.

When Renan and Sandeep return to finish their hair and makeup, Gil changes back. Sandeep applies some foundation and concealer to Gil’s face, Malcolm smiling from the side as Gil similarly fidgets adjusting to a new experience. Renan talks to Gil about styling, but they decide to keep his natural wave.

“Mega poof still looks good,” Renan comments to Malcolm, sharing a smirk over his name for the hairstyle. Sandeep touches up his makeup and applies the last touch of lipgloss while Gil changes, and they’re both ready to go.

“Think this’ll fit in your car?” Malcolm teases Gil, gesturing at the train around him.

“We’ve got the truck outside,” Rae says. “You’ll stand in the back while we drive to The Met. We’ll do last looks, then you and Gil will be on your way in.”

“You’re a cake,” Gil teases Malcolm, his smile wide and warm with appreciation.

Malcolm gives him a teasing squint back in return, then turns his head to Rae as he realizes something at the same time. “I can’t sit all night?”

“No,” they respond.

“I take it back, you’re more like the cake topper on a really large — “ Gil stops when Malcolm glares at him. “Aww, no need to pout. You can lean on me when you get tired.”

“I’ve been standing for eight hours!” Malcolm complains in slight exasperation. The dress might be made of a cool material for an important cause, but its function is seriously lacking.

“You’re beautiful.” Gil holds his chin. “We’re gonna have a good night.”

Malcolm pouts a little. “You can’t kiss me, you’ll mess up my lipgloss.”

“You can reapply it in the truck,” Sandeep reminds him.

Gil kisses Malcolm and trails a hand up and down his upper arm, something Malcolm finds inherently calming. “Do you want me to carry your meds in my jacket, or what are we doing?”

“We made you a clutch,” Rae says, holding up an equally spidered small, rectangular bag.

“How about meds in your pocket so you can remind me. I’m watchless this evening.” Malcolm holds up his wrist. “And I’ll do my phone in the purse.”

Gil puts Malcolm’s evening medications into a sandwich bag and slips them into his pocket. Rae and Margo carefully remove the train from Malcolm and put it onto a mannequin. Everything ready, Gil offers Malcolm his arm and the two walk down the stairs. “Why do you still have slippers on?” he asks.

The moccasins Malcolm typically wears on the roof keep his feet protected. “I’m supposed to walk barefoot. I don’t feel like walking around the city barefoot until then.” Another detail he didn’t realize. He’s always barefoot at home, but needing to be barefoot in public isn’t something he’s looking forward to.

“You’re not gonna have shoes all night?”

“There are folded flats in the clutch,” Rae tells Malcolm. “After photos are finished and you two are off to mingle, you can put them on.”

Reaching the sidewalk, a white box truck waits on the street. Malcolm shakes his head at the absurdity that he’s traveling to the venue in what would typically make deliveries for a small business. Rae and Margo work together to raise the sliding door and he peers inside to the emptiness.

“Your carriage awaits,” Gil jokes, gesturing at the open back of the truck.

Malcolm squints at him in derision but knows any attempt at defense is useless — Gil’s practically being handed a silver platter of things to poke fun at. Margo pulls on a loop at the back of the truck and a ramp slides out with a clunk.

“Sorry, had to get the red carpet first,” Gil adds with a smirk. “Shall we, your highness?” He extends his hand and bows his head.

Malcolm scoffs but takes his hand. Margo takes the other and the three of them work together as he walks up the ramp and into the back of the truck, Rae overseeing the loading operation. He grabs onto the railing around the side as Gil puts his foot into the bed of the truck. “You can sit up front, Gil,” he says.

Gil steps up into the truck without using the ramp. “No, I’m gonna make sure you stay upright.” He laughs. Rae and Margo load the mannequin with the train into a corner and secure it to the railing. They roll the door down and close the two of them in the dark, their onlooker in the corner disappearing. “Just hold onto the side — they’re only gonna go ten miles an hour, max.”

“I’d rather make out.”

“Of course you would.”

Malcolm leans his head into Gil’s and their teeth crash together instead of their lips, vibrating into Malcolm’s gums. “Harder than I thought.” He slides his hand down Gil’s front and lightly palms him through his pants. “That, too.”

“ _Bright_ ,” Gil warns.

Malcolm pulls away and sighs. “ _Fine_.” He rolls his eyes. 

Gil finds his hand and kisses the palm, an easier connection in the moving darkness. “I’ll take my time undressing you when we get home.”

The bumps, starts, and short stops of driving around New York bounce the back of the truck like a kiddie ride. Malcolm can’t take a wide stance like Gil and his moccasins have no grip, so Gil resorts to grasping his upper arm like he’s scared Malcolm will go flying if they brake suddenly. It keeps Gil close enough that Malcolm can sneak kisses when the truck stops, so he doesn’t complain.

The truck engine eventually cuts, and the back door flies up, leaving Malcolm squinting as his eyes start to adjust. _No Parking, Met Gala_ signs become visible first, as if anyone in New York doesn't know of the event happening there this evening. They help him down to the sidewalk and fetch the mannequin, Rae and Margo reattaching his train and doing last looks on both of their outfits, hair, and makeup as Gil looks on. “We will be back to pick you up, then we’ll help you get out of that,” Rae says.

“He can’t take that off himself?” Gil asks, suddenly more interested in the garment’s construction.

“That’s custom and needs to stay in one piece. We’ll unclip the back like a zipper and get him out in under an hour.”

“An hour?” Gil responds in surprise, his brows approaching his hairline.

“You’ll be asleep by the time I’m naked,” Malcolm whispers in Gil’s ear.

Gil nearly swats him on the ass and Malcolm grins at him as Gil realizes his plan’s foiled. There are many spiders in the way of playful touches. They’re not about to damage the piece in front of the designer.

“I’ll take those,” Margo says as she removes Malcolm’s moccasins, leaving him barefoot on the sidewalk. She sets them in the back of the truck, presumably for safekeeping until they leave.

“Good luck,” Rae offers. “Remember the message.”

Malcolm takes Gil’s hand and leads him to queue for the red carpet standing beside each other. He misses Gil’s arm wrapped around him, the dress making their typical interactions difficult. “I’m a walking depiction… Mental health is… I’m a walking depiction…” he recites under his breath, practicing what he is supposed to say to the reporters when asked.

Gil’s strong hand squeezes his. “They asked you to do this because you’re you. That’s all you need to be tonight. Yourself,” he reminds him, thumb running soothing strokes over the back of his hand.

“It’s important — I don’t want to say the wrong thing.” Malcolm wrings his hands. He’s going to say the wrong thing.

“We make mistakes talking all the time. Tonight’s no different. We pick up and move on.”

“I’m a walking depiction of — “

“ _Bright_.” Gil squeezes his hand harder, matching his emphasis. “I love you. You’ve got this.”

Cameras flashing, the roar of the crowd arriving, and the tight quarters as they wait to walk are all encroaching on Malcolm’s space. Even the dress is trapping him, tighter against his skin each time he inhales a quicker breath in. Someone’s tugging on his arm, dragging him forward…

“No way, Larry, I have first dibs on this one,” Ainsley’s voice argues through the fog. “Someone has to fall in second place, and it’s not me.”

His sister somehow skips them to the front of the line and to her small assigned spot near the start of the carpet. It’s far from the bigwig networks at the other end near The Met’s entrance, but it’s out of the bustling crowd.

“I can keep you here all night,” Ainsley says under the guise of interviewing him. “I know that look — take all the time you need.”

Malcolm wants to argue he doesn’t need her assuming, doesn’t need rescuing, but the words won’t come. This is their evening, his and Gil’s evening, he wants —

“Bright?” Gil’s hands on his upper back, under his chin. Even that touch is off, the dress at his neck blocking Gil’s usual spot at the base of his neck.

Malcolm turns around and faces the backdrop, escaping everyone. He breathes slowly and deliberately to block out the rest of the world, counting in his head until words return to his tongue. Back in some degree of control of his space, he quickly grounds himself. “Couldn’t be an evening out without that, could it?” he jokes as he turns to Gil’s less than amused face.

“What do you need?” Gil asks.

“To stand here with my husband a minute.”

“Can give you a lot more than one.” Gil brushes the side of his hand, and Malcolm takes it in his.

“Today’s kind of a lot.” The anxious ball in Malcolm’s stomach pushes at his dress, trying to pop out from its confines and make itself known. He swallows it down.

“You call the shots, you know?”

“Yeah. It’s still opening me up to some questions I don’t know that I want to answer publicly.” Why’d he stop seeing his father? Who is he to The Surgeon? Is he The Surgeon’s legacy? None of them lead anywhere positive. He cut off all contact with Dr. Whitly because his continued manipulation and interference left him spiraling in the clutches of John Watkins, the effects of which took a few years to hit him, but when they did, he spent parts of December and January getting help processing the trauma. His hand shakes in Gil’s — he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.

“So don’t. Dodge them like you dodge me sometimes.” Gil’s voice is light, teasing in the way he tries to get him to smile.

“ _Gil_.”

“You’re an expert at avoiding something until you’re ready to confront it.” Gil squeezes his hand, softening his words that hit too close to how Malcolm feels. “That’s not a critique — it’s the truth.”

“It’s a coping mechanism.” One he’s still working on unwinding so he doesn’t repress the pain and fear as much with ‘I’m fine’ again in the future.

“So talk about that.” Gil keeps drawing out options like multiple routes a suspect could have disappeared. No matter what path Malcolm takes, the suspect’s still gone.

“Did you bring your badge?” Maybe Gil could flash it to get them out of a chat…

“ _Kid_ — “

“No questions about my father,” Malcolm says resolutely. “If they try… I don’t know, steer me to the next person.”

“Okay,” Gil agrees, and Malcolm lets him meet his eyes. “You can handle this. I’ll be here, but I don’t think you’ll need the help. You're doing so well — you know what you're doing.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath and nearly runs his hands down the front of his dress. “Let’s do this before I ruin the piece.”

Gil kisses the back of his hand. “You’ve got this.”

Gil’s confidence will need to be enough for the both of them. They turn to Ainsley. “Bro, you’re gonna be on the best dressed list before me,” she teases. The fact that he has an invite at all has been an ongoing joke between them, Ainsley swearing she wished she was invited to go because she could rock a nontraditional material to fit the theme any day.

Malcolm rolls his eyes in return.

“They’re going to ask you who you’re wearing — “ She pulls out her reporter voice, talking to him like a child.

He, too, has been around his mother long enough to have a grasp of the basics. “I know _that_.”

Ainsley looks on expectantly.

“Rae Martinez, fear. In support of mental health advocacy in New York,” he recites. That's the simple part, ready to rattle off of his tongue on command.

She looks to Gil. “The same,” Gil adds, touching the matching spider clipped to his jacket pocket.

“That’s all they’ll likely ask you on camera. You’re Malcolm Bright, not Billy Porter,” she encourages Malcolm with a joke.

“Off camera?”

“You’ve been passed around at mom’s parties — you know how to handle yourself.”

“I want to tell them why it’s important.”

“So do that — weave it right in. You’re major overthinking this. Mom donated a lot of money so you could have a good time — have a good time.”

Malcolm’s face falls. Of course she did. It’s not like he didn’t know, the highly sought-after tickets to the event an exclusive commodity, but he didn’t _really_ know for sure. Thinking about it, it doesn’t really change the evening, though. She may have lined up the people, found the opportunity, but his attraction to the nonprofit and Rae's team is genuine. As off-putting as it can be sometimes, it's one of his mother's ways of showing love. In this case, she specifically picked a nonprofit that meant a lot to him, and if she had told him she was involved, he would have been just as grateful for the opportunity.

Ainsley doesn’t bother to appear regretful. “Don’t tell her I told you.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath and sighs. “Don’t you need to take a picture or something before we move on?”

“Oh, I already got it.” She smiles back at him in a knowing grin, displaying her confidence in her work.

Malcolm furrows his brow in puzzlement but walks his way to the next stop on the carpet, Gil in step beside him. “Did my mother tell you?” he asks.

“No.” Gil leans down to his ear. “But are you really surprised?”

Malcolm shrugs and the camera flashes as they turn to the reporter.

As Ainsley explained, all of the stops are formulaic. They’re expected to put on smiles for the camera, but Malcolm sticks to what comes naturally, every once in a while the crinkle around his eyes emerging. Gil smiles beside him as he explains his connection to the designer’s work and how people can contribute to the nonprofit. Occasionally, Gil touches his elbow to guide him or serves as a quiet barrier between him and the crowd, efforts Gil probably thinks go unnoticed, but mean more than Malcolm can express.

Malcolm can see the entrance when he’s asked about his personal connection to the nonprofit. “I have complex PTSD, generalized anxiety, depression. I work a great job here with the NYPD. They’ve been very accommodating when I need to go to therapy, or work from home, or take a day off when I’m having a bad health day. I have been fortunate to have access to care and treatment options. It’s been a helluva struggle”—he takes a deep breath and gives a nervous grin—“but I’ve had a lot of help. More people need that. The care, the support, the ability to do what they love.”

Gil beams at him. The reporter doesn’t ask anything else, and they’re free to move on. It’s all surprisingly… easier than Malcolm expected. The last few stops go smoothly.

It’s a slow walk up the stairs to the main entrance to reach the Great Hall, the train trailing behind him, glimmering in the camera flashes. A dress chandelier made entirely of blown glass greets them inside with a vibrant pop of many shades of purple and blue. They continue past it to the Grand Staircase, Gil offering his arm as they carefully ascend, attendants waiting on either side every few steps in case they need help. The number of people on hand to ensure they safely make it up the stairs is part comical, part necessary — the steps up are pretty difficult to manage with limited range of motion, and if he didn’t have Gil to walk with, he might have needed to ask for help. Thankfully, his bare feet come in handy here, sinking into the carpet instead of sliding like a flat-soled shoe would’ve.

Champagne flutes greet them at the top, and Malcolm downs his instantly. “You’re amazing, you know that?” Gil says, guiding them to a corner further away from people.

“It’s nice to hear.” Malcolm smiles. “How am I doing on time?”

Gil checks his watch. “Another forty minutes. We can walk through the exhibits if you want.”

They tour the display of the many different materials used in fashion, getting the exclusive first peek that will later open to the public. Dresses made from multicolor condoms created to fund AIDS charities. Metal outfits inspired by armor used in many different films. Plastic bags repurposed to make many different types of garments, assembled into a collage covering a whole wall. Gowns made of every material imaginable from balloons, to chocolate, to paper, to garbage, to water and beyond. Looking at all of the different materials, Malcolm realizes the dress he’s wearing could have been even more uncomfortable. The perspective doesn’t make the dress easier to walk in, but he can appreciate its beauty among all of the other contenders.

“You’re at time,” Gil says, reaching into his pocket.

“Think we can find plain water around here somewhere?” Malcolm glances around as he takes the sandwich bag from Gil.

“Could give it a go from the dress,” Gil jokes, pointing back to the water dress they passed. “I’ll get it. Be right back.”

Malcolm settles into the corner, out of the way of anyone looking through the exhibits. Maybe he can take a few minutes to people watch, settle his thoughts with a little bit of low-key profiling.

“Spider-Man!” a loud voice makes its way to him. “Put on quite the show out there!”

“Excuse me?” Malcolm looks over the suit in front of him, not recognizing the person inhabiting it.

“Mason Rooney. You are wearing some fine specimens.” The person reaches for one of the spiders and Malcolm shrinks back. “3D printed, right? I’ve seen a lot of work like this lately.”

“Yes, it’s a custom 3D printed design by Rae — “

“Martinez,” Mason finishes for him. “I’m familiar. I’d like to buy the piece.”

Mason has the brashness of Nicholas Endicott and the energy of Vijay Chandasara, and Malcolm plans to skirt away like he’s done with guests he’s encountered with his mother before. “Surely you know you’ll need to talk to them.”

“Here you go, babe,” Gil says, handing Malcolm his water and sliding in beside him.

“Do you need their card?” Malcolm asks.

“No.” Mason looks between them. “Small world. I know where to find them.” On a turn of a heel, Mason disappears.

“You got hit on.” Gil snickers.

“Could’ve used a lot more finesse.” Malcolm slips each pill out of the bag one by one and swallows them with some water.

“Dinner’s soon. They looked to be about ready to start calling us in.”

“I can’t sit.”

“Mr. Peacock can’t either,” Gil references a celebrity decked out in full plumage, the width of several arm spans that must make it impossibly difficult to get through any doorway. “I’m sure they have high tops in there.”

“Can we skip to the dancing?”

“I thought you wanted the full experience. The meal is supposed to be really good."

"You can enjoy it." Malcolm doesn’t mean to sound quite so downtrodden, but the evening’s turning out to be quite a bit different from their typical Christmas tradition he’s trying to recapture months later. There’s a constant undercurrent of discomfort, and he can’t hug his husband like he wants to. The idea of standing through a fancy dinner no longer sounds appealing when he doesn’t feel like eating.

Gil gives him a sharp look. “Let's walk until they're ready.” He rubs the back of his hand. “Do you want to put shoes on?“

Malcolm looks at his feet and realizes he can’t bend to reach the floor. “I — “

“I’ll slip them on for you.” Gil seems to know his concern before he voices it. “Do you want them?”

“Yes, please,” Malcolm says quietly, his head still ducked. He hands over the purse, and Gil takes the flats out of it. In no time, they’re on his feet and the purse is back in his hand.

At least walking is an escape to move and try to clear his head. Going back through the exhibit, they get a second glimpse of a dress made out of rubber gloves as a tribute to medical staff, glowing under black lights. Gil stops at a sign that says toilet paper couture, a wedding dress in front of them. “Jackie’s friends did this,” he says. "But this is another level."

“Ainsley’s done this at some of her friends’ bridal showers.”

“Funny it shows up here.”

“No weirder than the newspaper.” Malcolm smiles.

“Yeah, there are far more nontraditional materials. Some of these other options would have left you more exposed.”

“The water dress, you’re basically naked.” Malcolm points across the room. “Want me in that instead?”

“Some of the other plastics seem pretty warm,” Gil says, ignoring his offer.

“Yeah, this has the fabric underneath, so it’s not too bad. Heat-wise at least,” Malcolm tacks on, having several complaints about the rest of the outfit’s function. “In a different configuration, like chainmail or something, this might be easier to wear.”

“You end up getting custom armor pieces,” Gil teases.

Malcolm shrugs. He starts walking again, feeling relatively calm as long as they keep moving around. They stay occupied meandering until they get called to dinner.

The palatial court turned into place settings for hundreds of guests is packed with people finding seats, high tops around the sides and full rounds and long farm tables in the center, celebrities and other patrons packed in together. Wait staff moves around the space with ease, ensuring everyone’s needs are catered to. Malcolm gazes up at the ceiling several stories above them and across the array of tables with custom light fixtures changing color to the beat of the music, the space so large, he’s unable to see the guests at the far side.

“Sit,” he insists, Gil still standing beside him at the high top instead of on one of the stools.

“If you can stand, I can stand.” Gil rubs between Malcolm’s shoulder blades.

“Not great logic, but do what you want.” Malcolm shrugs. “I’d totally sit.”

Gil snickers. “Yes, you would.”

They people watch and drink while they wait for their food, getting views of outfits they haven’t seen. An ice dress that somehow hasn’t fully melted yet. A cake dress, the celebrity serving slices out of it. A shield made entirely of cellphone cameras, the eyes pointing back at the paparazzi who photograph the celebrity in a catsuit hiding behind it. Malcolm doesn’t know who any of the people are, but they’ve all come out in full form.

“I thought your dress was the most elaborate contraption I’d ever seen,” Gil comments, “but looking around at everybody, there are a number that have this beat.”

“Are you telling me I’m being upstaged?” Malcolm smirks.

“Never. Maybe fortunate this isn’t even more difficult to walk around in? If your dress was edible, I’m afraid too many would want to take a bite.”

“Maybe you would,” Malcolm whispers against his ear, nipping the cartilage. He succeeds at getting Gil to adjust his collar, so he takes that as a win in permeating his composure.

“I wonder what all of the other messages are.” Gil slips their hands together. “Like yours.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.” They probably won’t know until they see the press releases. They’re probably online now, but Malcolm doesn’t feel like pulling them up, instead preferring to stay focused on his time with Gil.

One of the wait staff delivers their food on plates made from corn to join their sugarcane flatware. The meal is full of things Malcolm won’t eat, his stomach turning at the thought of the rich foods touted on the menu as molecular gastronomy, deconstructed dishes made to look like they’re made with non-food ingredients to pair with the event’s theme. Gil describes how great they taste to him instead and finds him some grapes that are being used as garnish on one of the main courses. It puts something in his stomach with the alcohol. Not enough, but something. At least they don’t have an audience standing across from them to watch him not eat — the high tops are less popular than the standard seated dining, so the people who need them are fairly spread out or congregating around people they know. Outsiders in the crowd, they thankfully don’t need to share each other’s company with anyone else.

Malcolm distracts himself looking at his phone while Gil finishes eating, pulling up photos from Ainsley waiting in his inbox. He and Gil, from the back, Gil looking over him with the kind of devotion and support he always shows him.

“Whatcha got there?” Gil asks.

Malcolm tips the phone toward Gil. The same softness comes over his face and Malcolm reaches up to kiss him, silently thanking him.

“All the photos must be stunning. I’ll have to collect them for you.” Gil smiles.

“I’d rather remember it.”

“We will.” Gil kisses him in return.

As a ‘build your own candy dress’ dessert comes out, more and more couples take to dancing to the live entertainment. "Could I have this dance?" Gil asks, holding out his hand. The same thing he'd asked three years back at Christmas, the first time they’d spent it together as a couple, on a rooftop restaurant with a live jazz band. It gets Malcolm’s heart beating faster every time, rushing the tempo.

The dress isn’t the easiest clothing to dance in. Frankly, the entire night has demonstrated it’s not the easiest material to do anything in. But Gil’s beaming at him and Malcolm relies on his arms and gets his hips and feet to move enough to the beat that the restrictions move to the background. The uptempo pieces leave them sweating at the hairline and neck, and they grab passing napkins to blot away the moisture.

“I’ll get your back,” Gil says, smoothing the napkin over the exposed skin.

“Oh, good, a slow song,” Malcolm notes as the music changes.

They toss their napkins and fall into a sway. One song becomes two becomes them fitting into each other.

“ _You used to say you wanted someone to know you inside out_ ,” Gil sings quietly into Malcolm’s ear and the music continues on without him. “ _Somebody knows you now_ ,” he speaks and nuzzles the skin underneath his ear.

The dress doesn’t lend itself to pressing against Gil, so Malcolm lays his head on Gil’s shoulder instead, the rest of their bodies maintaining a distance encouraged at middle school dances. Gil’s hands guide him around his upper back and at his waist, settled in among the flat belt holding everything together.

As awkward as the position is, being with Gil, dancing together and singing like they’re the only people in each other’s world — it’s perfect. Every breath of his cinnamon-laced cologne, every press against his warm skin, every whisper of his voice, Malcolm can only describe as home — it’s everything they missed at Christmas. Better yet, he feels more okay now, capable of heading home with his husband and getting some sleep in comparison to weeks of sleeplessness that had been commonplace last year. He can find peace sometimes, and dancing with Gil is the epitome of it.

They only get one more slow song before the tempo changes again and Gil spins him. Together, they stay out dancing through whatever the performers offer until their evening closes, sappy grins plastered on their faces.

“Let’s take our date home,” Gil says, guiding Malcolm back toward the entrance.

They climb into the back of the truck a second time, Malcolm tired and giggly, Gil tired and wanting to stay connected to him. Once they’re closed in the dark, necking, Malcolm dips his hand into Gil's pants and Gil leans into him as he fills out under his touch. Their kisses are desperate as they ride home, ready to be in the comfort of their bedroom, away from others and the train-carrying mannequin watching them in the corner.

“Hell, this is uncomfortable,” Malcolm complains as his dick has nowhere to grow in the dress. He’s ready to contemplate ripping apart the contraption himself.

Gil takes Malcolm’s hands, stopping their exploration. “Let’s get home first.”

“I could suck you off.”

“I’d rather fuck you at home.”

"Hard?" Malcolm prods, stretching his fingers but not getting anywhere.

"At home," Gil says in a firm tone that shoots to Malcolm's cock, encouraging the opposite. He pulls Malcolm’s head to his shoulder, strokes the top of his back. “You were amazing tonight. I’m so proud of you.”

“I needed this with you.”

“I needed it too.”

The truck stops and there’s a rap on the door. “Sexy time’s over,” Margo’s voice jokes through the door. There’s a long pause before the door flies up. “End of an event like this, someone’s usually naked.”

Malcolm and Gil share a knowing glance and a kiss, then start the walk inside, Gil carrying Malcolm’s moccasins. There are two extra people they don’t particularly want in tow, but it’s the last part of the event — they can wait a little bit longer.

The extra time it takes to get Malcolm out of the dress gives them both a chance to remove their makeup, even gives Gil a chance to shower. By the time Rae and Margo leave with all of the dress pieces, it’s nearly two in the morning. Malcolm finally gets to take a bathroom break after so long, then he's yawning, ready to drop. “Bed,” Gil says, covering his own yawn and pushing Malcolm’s robed frame to the bedroom. He pulls his t-shirt over his head on the way, discarding it on the floor.

“I really should shower.” Malcolm’s hair is full of product and his feet… ugh.

“After.”

Malcolm’s not entirely sure he’s going to make it to after, sleepiness dragging through him now that all of the excitement of the day is gone. He falls backward onto the side of the bed and Gil tugs off Malcolm’s boxer-briefs before shucking his own pants. Standing beside the bed, Gil leans over to cover him and locks their mouths together. Each push of his tongue relays urgency to connect in a way they haven’t been able to all day. Gil’s hands open the robe between them and they finally press together skin to skin. “So beautiful,” he repeats as he’s been telling him all day, pulling back and cupping either side of Malcolm’s face. “You were amazing tonight.”

Each nip of Gil’s teeth along Malcolm’s collarbone skitters to his cock, a trail of marks Malcolm feels but can’t see in the darkness. Malcolm arches up into him, seeking friction against his firm cock, yet Gil lifts up to reach the nightstand. “I kept you a souvenir.” 

Eight legs of 3D printed composite drift across Malcolm’s chest, poke at a nipple. He chuckles as Gil moves it back and forth, the touches almost scratchy. “No?” Gil teases, tossing the spider back onto the nightstand. “These instead?” Slick fingers glide to Malcolm’s hole.

Gil’s touch against his rim is what Malcolm’s wanted since first thing this morning. He massages the furled muscle and pushes in, both of them eager to jump to sex. Malcolm eggs Gil on with his hips as if rocking them will make him open him faster. Luckily it works, Gil’s fingers disappearing and his cock sliding in, giving Malcolm a delicious stretch. “That okay, babe?” Gil asks.

“Hell yeah.” Malcolm angles his hips up to take him in the full way in response.

They’re on the same page, Gil thrusting into him at a strong clip, making his breaths catch in his ribs. Malcolm squeezes his knees tight to his chest as Gil snaps his hips into him, his feet bouncing up by Gil’s shoulders. It’s a constant pounding, Gil pulling his hips and snapping into him at the same time, the hours of waiting for each other turning into frantic minutes together before they pass out.

Gil’s thrusts bounce off his prostate, zing a warmth of pleasure into his core, leave his hands twisting in the sheets beside him as the mattress rocks sideways. Sweat beads on Gil’s face and chest in the streetlight, the view of him pistoning into Malcolm disappearing into the darkness. 

Malcolm pictures Gil burying his thick cock into him, all of the muscles across his chest, abs, and ass rippling as they work together to get him off. His cock thumps against his stomach, weeping as it aches for more than the touch of air. Gil’s hands dig into Malcolm’s sides, fingers grabbing with near bruising strength as his balls slap against Malcolm’s ass. Hair crunching into the bed, Malcolm’s head grinds into the sheets, leaving a mess of product for his shoulders to rub over.

“Need more.” He grunts. He reaches for his cock between them, but Gil’s there first. Gil’s slick hand wraps around his aching cock and fists it in quick pumps, catapulting a demand for release into his gut. Malcolm arches off the bed as his vision clouds and falters. “Fuck, oh fuck.” He comes with a loud moan, wet shots streaking his stomach. His core tingles as his muscles spasm around Gil’s cock railing into him. 

Gil’s hands shift to dig into his hips, slamming into his body as he chases his release. His hasty rhythm breaks, his hips stuttering and hands clenching into Malcolm’s sides as he comes. His hips jerk into him a few more times as he rides out his orgasm. Gil leans over to kiss him, presses open-mouthed kisses down to his nipple, and then he’s gone, Malcolm left in a blissful haze.

“Babe?” Gil’s hand rubs his cheek. A warm towel follows, wiping down his skin. “Will only take a minute.” He’s not dangling over the edge of the bed anymore, now shifted partway up to his pillow.

Gil covers him when he’s finished, and Malcolm drifts again. Malcolm is barely awake when Gil slips into bed beside him and pulls him close. “Sleep well,” Gil says, nuzzling his shoulder.

“Don’t let the spiders bite,” Malcolm returns.

“More likely to get stabbed by your hair,” Gil teases. “One or two?”

“Two.”

Gil slides the cuffs over his wrists and holds him again as Malcolm falls asleep, grateful for the special outing with his husband. A tradition delayed, yet a celebration of the two of them all the same.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely IllestRin, who shares their love of fun tropes and broyo to bring the fandom some smiles. who brings a smile into my life on the regular. who requested broyo, fun tropes, h/c, fluff, and a happy ending, holiday themed optional - i got them all in there somewhere. big ::hugs:: this one's for you - happy holidays, friend :)
> 
> a huuuuge thank you to Hannah_BWTM for brainstorming and providing feedback to get this to done. inspired by fun conversations with friends.
> 
> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is E, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


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